Alice Fairley

I saw your pictures with her at the Louvre,
your new woman, the one who fears rule-breaking
and looks nothing like me on the outside. She did not have to work hard
to fill the space that remained when I left — it was still warm,
you were happy to lean on her shoulder. It was easy, I’m sure,
to imagine I had wronged you.
Did you see the Virgin of the Rocks and think of me?
Do you recall how we queued under the glass pyramids
and strolled side-by-side underground?
To tell you the truth, I barely remember. I couldn’t say
which paintings you liked most, or which ones
made you cry. I do recall the smooth,
firm-soft body of Psyche, the glory
of Liberty’s flag, Saint Michael’s colourful wings.
These were artworks I already knew, made real
by their physical presence. Then I saw the Young Martyr,
dead in the gloom-water.
I looked at the painting for a long time
and felt that indescribable rising when something
is both beautiful and sad. Days later, in Venice,
you fell sick and I cared for you.
For years I cared for you, and the Young Martyr
hung on the wall of the Louvre all that time;
she is still hanging there, her halo as perfect as compassion
can make it. I have been wondering if she saw it,
your new woman, I mean,
and if she felt it too.